Whut can I say about that dark tressed slayer of mine without sounding like a love-sick ponce? Faith has a certain spark you don't see burning very often, one that sears into your skin and leaves a scar you can't help but stare and wonder at. She's the blood in me veins, and there's more to her than you lil' wanker's realize.
My kitten's like a present, wrapped so bloody tight that no matter how much you tear it, pull it, or fight to get it open, the key is that one vulnerable spot your fingers glide across that slips free, revealing the prize inside. She's complex. Yeh, you can yammer on about any woman being "complex" but this one is--more so than any other I've come across in a hundred and twenty-seven years of existance.
It's like Faith is this wonderfully ripe fruit just begging to be plucked and eaten... only she's bruised a bit on the inside. Thing is, you can't be callous enough to toss her away because of those bruises--you take 'em and make your way around 'em to the lush sweetness beneath... bite through the soft flesh-- *ahem* Uh, yeh... where was I?
The Slayer, right. Anyway, she's like one of those cubes. You know. In the '80s with the lil' boxes of colour you had to match up? Bloody thing took me nearly a decade to master and I haven't even been with Faith half as long. Yet. But me an' Faith, we got us an eternity to master one another and whut I think of her.
Alright, you got whut you came for. Now leave. I got me a slayer to master.